


(Living) Legend

by aceklaviergavin



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, BPD Victor Nikiforov, Bittersweet Ending, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Katsuki Yuuri, Heavy Angst, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Katsuki Yuuri, Other, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, implied domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8743981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceklaviergavin/pseuds/aceklaviergavin
Summary: Viktor has watched legends die.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello children it's Suffering time
> 
> (read the tags)

Viktor has watched legends die. He climbed up the crags of their shoulders and slid the knife into their backs himself. The old idols crumbled beneath him and he used their heads as stepping stones on his way to the podium. Viktor strangled legends with his own two hands, wiped their records away and carved his own into their throats. Viktor slayed them until he took their place as Viktor Nikiforov, the living legend.

And when Viktor claimed that title, Viktor decided he would sooner fall on his sword than let someone take it from him.

* * *

Viktor screamed into his pillow. When that didn’t work, he screamed louder, kicking his feet like a petulant child. Makkachin whined at his master’s bedside, nails clacking on the floor anxiously. Makkachin never handled well during Viktor’s moods, when rage and frustration rolled off him like steam and infected everything he touched.

Viktor’s phone rang on his bedside table, no doubt Yakov calling to berate him about missing practice. After all, the Grand Prix was over, but the season wasn’t. There was still the European Championship and Worlds, where Viktor would have the chance to redeem himself. At that moment, though, Viktor wasn’t sure there was anything to redeem.

Viktor screamed again, before grabbing his phone and chucking it across the room. It clattered to the floor, dead, and Viktor added “phone shopping” to his never ending to do list. Makkachin whimpered again, ears flat against his head.

“I’m as good as dead, Makka,” Viktor wailed. “If I had a medal I’d hang myself with it.”

He had plenty of medals hanging on his vanity, just none from that day. Viktor’s eyes slid to them, all of his life’s work laid out in bronze, silver, and gold. But what good were they if Viktor’s image couldn’t outlive them? On second thought, Viktor doubted they’d be an effective method of suicide.

Viktor sat up on his bed, knees tucked against his chest. His hair shrouded his face as he tried to make himself as small as possible. Ever since he was sixteen and he won the Junior Grand Prix for the second time, he vowed that he wouldn’t fade into obscurity. At eighteen, he debuted in the senior division and all eyes were on him, expecting great things from him. The world demanded blood and he was more than willing to give it. But it hadn’t been enough. Two medals in the Grand Prix Series hadn’t been enough to carry him to the podium come the Final.

People said it was a good start to a promising career. Yakov said he would do better next year. But it wasn’t _enough_. The weight of the world had been on his shoulders and he’d crumbled under it. Last year he had been a _star_ , a rising _legend_. And now he was another skater among many, waiting to be replaced.

He swore he would never fade away, but what if it was already starting? What if his chance to burn out like a star and etch himself into history was _gone_? Already he could feel the dozens of skaters scaling his legs, knives clutched in their teeth, _yearning_ for their chance to tear him down, just as he had done. One day they would tear him down for their own gain. But Viktor wouldn’t give them the chance. His only fear was that he was already crumbling before anyone had the chance to make him fall.

Viktor leapt out of bed in a second, sweeping through his apartment to the kitchen. Makkachin obediently followed, tail between his legs. He knew his master wasn’t in the right state of mind. Viktor’s vision tunneled, monotone and fuzzy at the edges as he zeroed in on the chef’s knife in his drying rack. He grabbed the handle, ignoring Makkachin whimpering at his feet.

A million fantasies flashed before Viktor’s eyes. He’d had so many visions about this, about how he’d cut his lifeline in its prime. There were so many options, but to Viktor there was always a certain beauty in peeling apart at the wrists. Absently, he felt Makkachin pawing at his leg, trying to pull Viktor’s attention away from the knife in his hand. But to Viktor, it was a world away.

Viktor stared at the glowing exit sign in his hand, a blinding light that burned out everything else. Viktor wanted nothing more than to take it, to bury this shame with him so that he didn’t have to face the world in the morning. But this wasn’t the ending he’d envisioned. If he died now, he would be crushed under the weight of his loss. He wouldn’t leave anything behind except his failure. His hands shook, white knuckled around the knife. He wanted to die more than anything, to escape this shame and defeat, but he _couldn’t_. Not now, it wasn’t _right_.

He screamed, primal and raw, crumbling to the ground. He tucked his head into his knees, still holding the knife in his hand pressed against his forehead. Hair draped over him, skirting the floor as Viktor screamed into his knees. He screamed and screamed, white hot tears streaming down his cheeks. All this time he’d worked to make himself a legend, he dreamed of dying as one and leaving behind a story greater than himself, greater than he could ever be. Dying with his tail between his legs, hot shame bleeding out of him, wasn’t the story he wanted to leave behind.

 _Not yet, not yet_.

He was weak, _so, so_ weak, collapsed on his kitchen floor, wanting nothing more than to never get up. But he couldn’t die that way, he couldn’t die as the man who came so close to glory and let it slip through his fingers. He had to pull himself back up with his own bones splintering under his weight and take his place at the top. He had to make himself a legend, and only _then_ , would he have a story worth remembering. Then _he’d_ be worthy.

But first he had to be reborn. Now he was weak, he wasn’t enough. He was stagnating. Tonight was proof of that. In Juniors he had been captivating, ethereal, and otherworldly. All eyes were on him and for once in his life he was _enough_. But no longer. His image staled, no longer commanding attention. Viktor, as he was now, was _boring_ and that was as good as death. If he wanted to become a legend, if he wanted to earn the ending he’d always sought, he needed to always captivate the world.

He had to burn the man he was now, shatter himself and rebuild with the pieces. He’d be sharp at the edges, sparkling in the light, as deadly as he was beautiful. And he’d keep rebuilding, shifting and ever changing, dying and being reborn a million times over. Until one day, with his story at his apex, he wouldn’t rise from his ashes.

Viktor gathered his hair in one hand, wrapping it around his fist. He pulled it back in a ponytail and held the blunt edge of the knife against the back of his neck.

_Deep breaths._

He would be remade. He would be new, and exciting, and he would be worthy.

He sawed at his thick hair, cutting it slowly, the frayed strands falling forward to frame his face. Back and forth, pulling at the nerves in his scalp. It _hurt_ , but he grit his teeth and pushed forward. This was the price of rebirth. Long, ashen hair fell to the floor around him. The process took minutes, not nearly as romantic as movies made it seem. But eventually, the knife and the last of Viktor’s hair fell to the ground. It was a physical and emotional weight off Viktor’s shoulders. In the hair at his feet, Viktor saw his past self, his failures, and he would leave them behind here. He would be better. He would be worthy.

Whimpering, Makkachin licked at the drying tears on Viktor’s cheeks.

* * *

Yakov scouted Viktor at a regional competition when the boy was fifteen. He stood out amongst the men, long hair trailing behind him in ashen streaks. His hair wasn’t the only remarkable thing about him, what truly stood out was how he danced on the ice like pulling music from his soul. Even in the boy’s inexperience, shown in the way his knees wobbled on his landings, Yakov could see something special.

Viktor twirled on the ice with a sureness that belied his age. Even though his legs shook and he over-rotated on a landing, he moved like the music was his own. Anyone watching could see he was in love with the ice, that it was home to him like solid ground never was. Viktor took first, and Yakov knew he had promise, given the right tools.

Yakov approached him after the competition. Viktor was alone which was strange for a boy his age. Most of the other competitors had family around them, doting mothers inspecting scraped knees and giving warm praises. Viktor looked like he was lost in the crowd. Yakov gave the boy his information, told him to come to his rink in St. Petersburg if he wanted to be truly great. Yakov still remembers the hope in Viktor’s eyes when he said that, thinly veiling the boy’s desperation.

He wasn’t surprised to see the boy again six months later. What was surprising was that the boy had nothing but his skates, the clothes on his back, and his winnings from the last season in his back pocket. Viktor lived out of his skating bag for a time, spending most of the day on ice, then sneaking back into the rink at night to sleep on the bench in the locker room. Even so he paid Yakov’s coaching fee, he kept training, and winning every competition Yakov put him in.

It was at that point that Yakov put his foot down, because he refused to let one of his skaters, a fifteen year old boy no less, live like that. The rink owners would get angry, and Viktor had too much promise to turn away. Yakov invited the boy into his and Lilia’s home, giving him the spare room until Viktor has enough income to support himself. Viktor made himself as scarce as possible, using the room as little more than a place to sleep at night. Lilia had little patience for teenagers, despite working with many. She called Yakov soft, berating him for taking in the first stray that appeared on his doorstep. Years later, Yakov could see it as the first crack in their marriage. But at the time, Yakov just remained resolute, promising that Viktor was an investment that would repay itself in time.

Viktor skated like his life depended on it. In many ways, it did. Viktor spent every day on the ice, shedding everything that made him human and becoming something _more_. Viktor dedicated himself to the ice, and his body sang of it in every program. It was beautiful, it was new, it was _Viktor_. He became well known in the area, soon climbing his way up through the competitions. Shortly before his first time at nationals, Viktor was contacted by a local company about a sponsorship. Viktor won, just as Yakov knew he would, and shortly after gets his first apartment. It was small, with peeling wallpaper and no central heating, but it’s the first thing that Viktor can call his own, and Yakov didn’t miss the small glimmer of pride when Viktor moved out.

Viktor never talked much about the life he left behind. But Yakov knows enough. Viktor’s eyes flashed with fear every time Yakov raised his voice to shout across the ring, Viktor instinctively flinched whenever Yakov lifted a hand in gesture, and at night after Lilia and Yakov fought, voices piercing through the thin walls, he would sometimes find Viktor shivering under the covers of his bed, hands over his ears. There are a million stories in those movements that Yakov never needed to be told.

Yakov knew there were likely scars under Viktor’s facade that would need more than distance to heal. He was just a boy, running away from things Yakov could only imagine. He was the closest thing to a father figure that the boy had. But even so, the boy was not his son, and Yakov had no responsibility to him. Yakov’s only duty was to take Viktor’s untuned raw talent and direct it.

Yet still, there were times when Viktor thought no one was looking, where he stared into space and went numb. Those looks reminded Yakov of where the boy had come from. He knew that running away to an unfamiliar city with nothing but a pair of skates wasn’t done by someone who had something to lose. It didn’t occur to Yakov until Viktor showed up after his first senior Grand Prix, hair choppily cut off at the chin, that Viktor might still have nothing to lose.

Yakov ordered Viktor to a stylist to salvage the mess he’d made of his hair. When Yakov asked why Viktor threw away one of his most defining features, Viktor looked into the distance and simply said he needed to keep surprising the world. Yakov didn’t understand it, but Viktor rededicated himself to his program, and that was Yakov’s only concern.

Viktor was a fire, the likes of which Yakov has never seen, consuming everything in its path. He stoked the flames, feeding that singular desire for victory, for greatness. Competition burned away under Viktor’s fire, leaving a path of ash for the skater to follow. Viktor won his first Grand Prix at twenty-two, and they went drinking. Viktor stared into the bottom of his glass with a somberness Yakov had never seen in a champion.

“Tell me, what’s the record for consecutive Grand Prix wins?” Viktor asked.

How was Yakov to know that the fire he fed would just as soon immolate Viktor, the man, as it carried Viktor, the skater, to glory?

* * *

Viktor won the Grand Prix and Worlds at twenty-two, and he kept winning. He blew all the old records out of the water, burning away all the names of the old legends until only Viktor Nikiforov remained. He was at the top of the world, constantly innovating, constantly burning his old selves, and invited the others to follow him. They said he revolutionized skating and they called him a legend. But Viktor knew that only meant so much, that his younger competitors yearned to stick the knife in his back. At twenty-five, everyone was already waiting for him to retire, knowing his body could only hold out for so long.

His body was a ticking time bomb, and as Viktor felt the ache in his joints, he knew his time was drawing short. Christophe, JJ, Otabek, and all the others were breathing down his neck. It was only a matter of time before one of them would succeed. Viktor’s vow remained in the back of his mind, his refusal to be torn down and forgotten. Every season after Worlds he asked himself if he could keep winning the next year, if his skill and dedication could still win out over his declining body. At the end of every season he asked if it was his time.

At twenty-seven, he could feel it, deep in his bones, that his time at the top was coming to an end. If he tried to go another season, he’d be gambling with time. Maybe even worse than that, was that the world no longer wanted him to win. He had won so many times, and they were bored of seeing Viktor meet their expectations. And if Viktor was honest, he was tired of exceeding them. They wanted to see him fall, they wanted someone new, someone exciting to rise up in his place. They were tired of his story as it was, and Viktor was tired of living it. He owed it to them to write an ending.

Twenty-seven felt like a good age to die.

After Worlds, he’d promised. He had his pills, and they stared at him when he returned after Worlds, a new gold medal in his collection. The only thing that kept him from embracing death that night was Makkachin. He nosed at Viktor’s hand as Viktor stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring down the lifeless husk in the mirror.

He looked down, meeting Makkachin’s eyes, and for the first time his resolve wavered. _Who will take care of Makkachin,_ he wondered. In all his fantasies, he’d spared little thought to the companion he’d leave behind. The people in his life would be fine. Mila, Georgi, Yuri, and Yakov would carry on without him. However, Makkachin relied on him. It was Viktor’s responsibility to ensure Makkachin was cared for once he was gone.

Viktor sank to his knees, pulling Makkachin into his arms. “I’m sorry, Makka,” he cooed. “I didn’t think about what would happen to you.” He squeezed Makkachin tighter. “I’ll make sure you’re looked after.”

Two days later, Katsuki Yuuri’s video went viral.

Viktor screamed when he saw it. He held his phone in clenched hands, replaying the video a hundred times over as Katsuki’s body rewrote every line of Viktor’s story. The video was silent save for Katsuki’s blades etching into the ice, but the music flowed from their body like it was pulled from their very own soul. There was a second video, where someone had added _Stammi Vicino_ over the original, Katsuki dancing as if it had been there in the first place. But they didn’t need it.

Viktor watched as Katsuki skated Viktor’s program like it had been _meant_ for them, showing emotions that Viktor hadn’t known for years. They skated it better than Viktor ever had, and Viktor felt the claws raking down his back. If someone like Katsuki Yuuri, out of shape and about to retire, could be better than _Viktor Nikiforov_ , what did that say about him? Was he too late? Had he already been torn from his pedestal when he wasn’t looking?

Viktor had been _so close_. He’d touched greatness and caged it in his hands like a dying star and let it _burn_. He held onto it, white hot and deadly, searing his hands and burning away all that he was. Layers upon layers of flesh blistered and peeled away, until finally, _finally_ , he would pull back the last and his soul would be _free_. For years, he’d yearned so badly to just be _free_.

And in the space of four minutes, Katsuki had ruined it all. Because what would it say if he died now? When someone fifteen pounds overweight with no coach could skate a program he’d spent four months perfecting and do it better than him? When someone _could_ be better than him? He was supposed to be a legend, untouchable and inhuman. His dream had been to die above the rest, before anyone could even touch him, to leave a gap in the world that would never be filled, to become a legend greater than himself and die before anyone realized he was just a man, with all the weakness and flaws that that entailed.

But Katsuki Yuuri had touched him, both his greatness and his heart. Viktor watched the video again, and he felt something stir within him, something he thought long dead. He couldn’t die now. Not like this, not when so many of the pieces Viktor had envisioned were missing. Katsuki Yuuri had forced his hand, and Viktor would have to keep living. He would have to salvage this, until his story was reworked and he could write the ending again.

Viktor already knew that his body might not hold out for another year, so competing was out. Whatever Viktor did about Katsuki Yuuri, he’d have to do it off the ice. Viktor spent the night researching the other skater. He watched old performances, read recent interviews. As he’d heard, Katsuki Yuuri was currently without a coach, with rumors of retirement circling in skating forums. Viktor watched their old performances. They were good. They’d _have_ to be to make it to the Grand Prix Final this past year. But there was something special there, too, something that called out to Viktor from worlds away. Even when they stumbled and fell on the ice, Katsuki’s body _sang_. They could be a champion, Viktor felt it in his bones. Viktor could _make_ them a champion.

Coaching was a natural next step for skaters whose passions outlived their bodies. It wasn’t one Viktor had ever considered. He’d never planned to outlive his body. But it just might work, to take a leap of faith all the way to Japan. Already, Viktor could see a story unfolding before him, where Viktor took a chance on a longshot and carried them to greatness. It was beautiful, exactly what the world wanted to see. Viktor could take a chance on Yuuri, and they would become his legacy. He would lead Yuuri to the Grand Prix final, they would _win_ , and that would be Viktor’s finale. Yuuri would be his last performance, he would make Yuuri _great_. And years later, people would look at Yuuri and see _him_.

Viktor packed his bags and took the first one-way flight to Japan with Makkachin in tow, running away once again. Even after all these years, he was still the same boy looking for freedom. After all these years, he still had nothing to lose.

And it worked. Yuuri was every bit as magnificent as Viktor imagined and more. Yuuri flourished under Viktor’s care, and soon enough Viktor was watching Yuuri rise above every challenge Viktor gave them. Yuuri had already been great, before Viktor ever touched them. For the first time in years, Viktor was surprised.

Viktor continued being surprised when he fell in love with Yuuri, and then with life.

* * *

Yuuri had everything planned for Viktor’s birthday. He knew what he would make for breakfast, then they would walk around Hasetsu, hands joined as they looked out across the water. They’d arrive at the ice rink by nine for training. After all, the Grand Prix was over, but Nationals was still on the horizon. Yuuri had been learning how to make pirozhkis so that he could prepare one for their lunch break. In the evening, after training, Yuuri would bring Viktor home to Yu-topia where their friends and family would prepare a small party.

It would be small, and cozy, but Yuuri hoped Viktor would love it.

All those plans went up in smoke when Yuuri woke up completely alone. Yuuri’s alarm went off at seven, when the skies were still dark. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Yuuri turned to nudge Viktor awake, only to find his side of the bed cold. Yuuri started, glancing around the room to find it empty. It was the first time in months Yuuri had woken up alone.

Yuuri immediately felt on edge. Viktor had completely wormed his way into Yuuri’s life in just over six months. He filled in the cracks that Yuuri hadn’t known were there, fitting against Yuuri’s side like a puzzle piece that he’d been waiting for his whole life. Yuuri had been alone his whole life (or if not alone, then _lonely_ ) and had survived. But now that he knew what it was to have Viktor in his life, trying to exist without him was like having his skin rubbed raw.

Yuuri pulled himself out of bed, keeping an eye and ear out as he got ready. There was nothing, no quiet snores from Viktor’s room, no paws scratching at the door as he brushed his teeth. It was eerie, how quiet their hallway was this morning. Yuuri walked to the dining room, hoping to find Viktor at the table, digging into some tamagoyaki with Makkachin splayed over his lap. But the dining room was empty, silent save for Hiroko sweeping the floor in preparation for the day’s guests.

Yuuri stared at the empty table in confusion. Where was Viktor? Today of all days?

“Good morning, Yuuri,” his mother greeted. “Pronouns, dear?”

“Um, he,” Yuuri replied absently. “Mama, have you seen Viktor?”

The quiet _swoosh_ of the broom stopped. “He’s not with you?”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, he wasn’t here when I woke up.”

The anxiety was clear on Yuuri’s face, especially to Hiroko who had helped Yuuri through his panic countless times. She smiled at him. “I’m sure it’s fine, dear. He probably went to Ice Castle Hasetsu early.”

Yuuri nodded, still in a daze. Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of place. “I’m going to get going, then.” He’d already started towards the door.

“Yuuri,” Hiroko scolded. “At least have some breakfast first.”

Yuuri stopped, flushing slightly. “Of course.”

He inhaled some miso soup, sparing little time, and in fifteen minutes he was jogging across the bridge to Ice Castle Hasetsu. The sun was just beginning to rise over the water, the dark inky blue of the sky giving way to a dusky blue. It was a beautiful sunrise, just as he’d imagined seeing on Viktor’s birthday. But in all those fantasies, Viktor had been by his side, hand in hand.

He nearly ran into the door of the ice rink, hands fumbling to pull it open. He was quickly overheating inside his coat, panting heavily as he leaned against the counter. Yuuri had never been a long distance sprinter.

“Yuuri-kun?” Yuuko called, watching in horror as Yuuri collapsed on the front desk.

“Is Viktor here?” Yuuri asked, pulling himself up.

Yuuko gave him a quizzical look. “No, he always shows up with you these days.”

Yuuri gripped the counter, feeling the itch in the back of his head grow stronger. His vision tunneled and all he could hear was the buzzing in his ears saying, _Viktor was gone gone gone where could he be_. Something was _wrong_ , ever since he’d woken up without Viktor or Makkachin by his side. He’d felt it bone-deep, a feeling of utter _wrongness_ that he just couldn’t shake. All those fears were being confirmed as Viktor was nowhere to be found.

“What’s wrong?” Yuuko asked gently, suddenly at Yuuri’s side.

He’d missed her jump the counter in his daze. Her hands hovered at his sides, itching to smooth out his anxieties but not wanting to startle. Yuuri sucked in a breath.

“Viktor’s _gone_ , no note or anything, and no one’s seen him. He’s not here or the inn…”

“Yuuri, breathe,” Yuuko soothed. “With me, okay?”

Yuuko started to take slow, exaggerated breaths, urging Yuuri to follow suit. He copied her, just like he used to when they were kids. In through the nose, out through the mouth, until his breathing steadied and his mind slowed.

“Are you okay?” Yuuko asked after a minute. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

Yuuri nodded. Comfort smoothed over his shoulders with Yuuko’s hands, familiar and warm. Yuuko spoke gently into his ear. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. He might have just forgotten to leave a note, or he got distracted while he was out. You know how flaky he can be.”

Her voice was sure, and Yuuri couldn’t help but believe her. Of course she was right, of course it was just his anxiety running wild. “Have you tried calling him?” Yuuko suggested.

“Oh.” Yuuri flushed, scrambling for his phone. He was so used to having Viktor at his side, and so concerned that he’d forgotten that Viktor was just a phone call away.

Yuuko smiled at him as he dialed, hand soft on his shoulder. It went immediately to voicemail. Yuuri’s fingers tightened on his phone, shaking as he dropped it to send a text. “Yuu-chan, his phone is off, he _never_ turns his phone off.”

The screen blurred before Yuuri’s eyes. “I’m sure it’s fine, maybe it ran out of batteries?”

“But where would he _go_? Before seven in the morning on _his birthday_ , without telling anyone or being seen? He can’t speak Japanese, what would he _do_?”

Yuuko squeezed his shoulder. “Have you asked Minako? Maybe they went out early to—”

_Borf!_

Yuuri’s eyes shot to the door, where a familiar brown poodle pawed at the glass. “Makkachin!” he cried, pushing out the doors.

As soon as he was outside, his first instinct was to pet Makkachin. But the dog dodged out of his way, whimpering as he started to run back down the stairs. “Wait, Makka!” Yuuri called out.

Makkachin paused at the bottom of the stairs, prancing anxiously in place. He looked over his shoulder at Yuuri and barked. Yuuri’s heart raced in his chest. Makkachin never left Viktor’s side, not unless he was with Yuuri. For Makkachin to be wandering Hasetsu _alone_ … A million scenarios flashed through Yuuri’s mind, none of them good.

Yuuri walked down the stairs to Makkachin. “Come here,” he said gently.

Makkachin waited for Yuuri impatiently. But as soon as Yuuri was close enough to touch, the dog darted away, running down the path. He stopped a dozen feet away and barked again. Now, Yuuri understood. Vicchan used to do the same thing when he was hungry, leading Yuuri to his food bowl.

Yuuri took off, letting Makkachin lead the way.

“Yuuri-kun!” Yuuko called from the steps. “Where are you going?”

Yuuri’s feet pounded on the pavement, heart hammering in his ears as he chased the brown blur in front of him. What could have happened? Was Viktor hurt somewhere, on his own with no way to get help? Dread caught in Yuuri’s throat. His whole body ached, shock running up through his legs, his lungs burning with each drag of cold air. His shoes weren’t made for running and it ached in his shins. But he kept going, as fast as he could and then pushing himself faster.

He ran, as the pavement gave way to sand and the sun hovered above the horizon. One the beach, Yuuri saw a figure hovering just beyond the edge of the water. Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat as Makkachin slid to a stop near them, waiting for Yuuri to catch up. Yuuri would know that silhouette anywhere.

“Viktor!” he yelled, breathless, relief washing over him like the water on the shoreline.

Viktor didn’t turn, eyes still locked on the distant horizon, knees pulled to his chest. Yuuri stopped at his side, shoes digging into the sand and hands planted on his knees. He doubled over, panting in a struggle to regain his breath from his run across the city. He glanced over Viktor as he caught his breath. Viktor was awake and uninjured, everything Yuuri had hoped for as he ran after Makkchin.

Yuuri realized Viktor was still in his pajamas, a loose t-shirt hanging off his shoulders. “Vitya!” Yuuri scolded, immediately pulling his coat off and draping it over Viktor’s shoulders.

Viktor jumped, looking to Yuuri as if noticing him for the first time. Makkachin wagged his tail, noticing his master had come back to awareness. “Yuuri…” Viktor murmured, eyes wide.

Yuuri collapsed behind Viktor, wrapping the other in his arms. After the morning he’d just had, panic-ridden and worried for his boyfriend’s safety, he need to hold Viktor in his arms immediately. He pulled Viktor to his chest, chin coming to rest on the other’s shoulder. Yuuri buried his nose in the crook of Viktor’s neck, shuddering at his ice-cold skin. His hands sought out Viktor’s, entwining their fingers and pulling them to Viktor’s chest. He rubbed them in slow circles, encouraging blood to flow back into them.

“How long have you been out here?” Yuuri asked, voice still wavering with anxiety. “You’re freezing.”

Viktor tucked his head to his chest, lips brushing over their joined hands. “I… I’m not sure.”

Yuuri went quiet. He knew something was wrong. As flighty as Viktor could be at times, it was unlike him to wander out in the middle of the night and wait to freeze to death in the sunrise. Before Yuuri had broken Viktor out of it, he’d been somewhere else. It wasn’t like Yuuri’s panic attacks, he could tell that much. He wanted to know how to help, what had brought this on.

“What are you doing out here?” Yuuri asked quietly.

Viktor stiffened in his arms. Yuuri squeezed his hands and spoke, trying to be as soothing as possible despite the thudding in his chest. “It’s okay, you know you can tell me.”

Viktor was silent, stiff in Yuuri’s arms. Yuuri gave him time, listening to the water breaking against the shore. He let it direct his breathing, just as he’d let Yuuko earlier, trying to ease the vice in his chest.

“I was never supposed to make it to twenty-eight,” Viktor finally said.

Yuuri waited for him to continue, to offer some sort of explanation for what that meant. But nothing came, Viktor’s mouth stayed shut. There was a chill up Yuuri’s spine, a tingling feeling that told him he knew _exactly_ what that meant. But Yuuri had to ask. “What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to die.”

Yuuri arms tightened instinctively, so much that Viktor grunted under his breath. “I… V-Vitya, what?”

“I wasn’t worth anything before they called me a legend. I always promised myself I’d die before I gave that up.”

Yuuri was floored. How was he supposed to respond to that? He was no stranger to wanting to die, certainly. But in all his years, he’d never imagined _Viktor Nikiforov_ would share that sordid wish. _No_ , Yuuri reminded himself. It wasn’t Viktor Nikiforov that he held in his arms. Just Viktor.

“I had this whole story in my head,” Viktor continued. “Where I would be the best and I would die before anyone could tear me down.”

Yuuri choked on a sob, needles pressing at the back of his eyes. He struggled to keep his emotions down, because Viktor was speaking and it was _good_. Viktor was being vulnerable, showing a side that no one had ever seen, and Yuuri didn’t want him to get caught up in Yuuri’s own feelings. But it was _hard_ , as Viktor spoke with complete disregard for his own life, something Yuuri found utterly precious.

“I’ve had that dream since I was sixteen. And I spent so long searching for it, putting myself on an impossible pedestal that I could never hope to earn, so that one day I could jump off it.

“I’m nothing if I can’t skate, and my body can only hold out for so long. One day I’ll be injured, or I’ll fade into obscurity, and I’ll no longer be a living legend I’ll just be _living_.” Viktor spat the word with such disgust, like it was poison in his mouth. “But if I go out in my prime, then I can stay that way forever; I can be immortalized as a fantasy that no human could ever hope to fulfill.

“After Worlds I was going to, because I knew my time was running out and I would never be as great as I was then. I had it all planned, and it was going to be _beautiful_ , the ending I’d always envisioned.”

Yuuri squeezed Viktor’s hands, his eyes burning with tears. “There’s nothing beautiful about death,” he finally choked out.

Viktor paused, and Yuuri desperately hoped he hadn’t spoken out of turn. “Maybe not to you,” he said quietly. “But to me, when it was _my_ death, it was.” Yuuri could understand that, at least. Yuuri had been there enough times to know.

“Just as I was… making preparations… I saw you.” The memory made Viktor flush with shame. “And it seemed like proof that I was already fading. I couldn’t let it end there. You took the story I’d been writing my whole life and threw out the ending.”

Yuuri swallowed. “If you hadn’t seen that video… you’d be dead?”

“Yes.” The surety in Viktor’s voice terrified Yuuri.

“Remind me to thank the triplets,” Yuuri mumbled. Viktor huffed out a laugh.

“You were supposed to be my last performance,” Viktor admitted heavily. “I was going to surprise the world with you one last time, so that I’d be remembered through you. And after you won the Grand Prix Final I would kill myself.”

Yuuri didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what he _could_ say to finding out he’d been a pawn in Viktor’s elaborate suicide. All he could manage was to hold Viktor close. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed, and Viktor smiled slightly at the corner of his mouth.

“I should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy. You’d rewritten my story once, I should have known you’d do it again,” Viktor sighed. “The time I’ve spent with you, Yuuri, has been the happiest time of my life.”

“I’m glad,” Yuuri said, voice wet with tears.

“You were the first person to ask me to be myself. You let me be _me_ , and I loved you for it. I fell so deeply in love with you, Yuuri, you can’t possibly—”

Yuuri shook his head. “I _can_ , I _can_.”

Viktor kissed Yuuri’s hands, still clasped around his on his chest. “I never had a family before you. Not one that loved me. And I feel _so_ loved, for the first time…”

“You are, Vitya,” Yuuri breathed, kissing Viktor’s neck. “So loved.”

Viktor turned his head, leaning against Yuuri’s temple. “This life that I have with you, here, is the best I’ve ever lived.”

Yuuri met Viktor, leaning into him. “It’s yours, Vitya, my life is yours to share.”

Viktor closed his eyes. “And if it’s with you, I think living might be bearable.”

Yuuri went quiet, nuzzling into Viktor’s hair. It wasn’t healthy, for Yuuri to be Viktor’s entire reason for living. That wasn’t a responsibility Yuuri could bear, not when Yuuri struggled to find his own reasons.

Viktor laughed ruefully. “I want to live for you, but I’ve been waiting to die my whole life.” Viktor’s hands clenched between Yuuri’s. “Living with you means letting go of that dream. I don’t know the first thing about wanting to _live_.”

“I’ll help you,” Yuuri said. “I can be your reason until you find your own.” Yuuri isn’t used to being someone else’s pillar of strength. But for Viktor, he would do anything.

Viktor opened his eyes and let his head fall back on Yuuri’s shoulder. He stared up at the sky, at the birds flying overhead. “What does my story mean if I don’t write the ending?”

Yuuri kissed his jaw, breath puffing against his neck. “Why does it have to mean anything?”

“Because _I_ need to mean—”

“You do,” Yuuri said. “To me, to my family, my friends. You mean _everything_ to me.”

Viktor looked to Yuuri; he had a cold-bitten nose and red-rimmed eyes, tears drying on his cheeks. Viktor couldn’t believe it was for _him_. He could never do enough to deserve this, to deserve _Yuuri_.

“It’s hard,” Viktor breathed, words forming a cloud in the cold air, carried away on the wind. “To let go of an old dream.”

Yuuri smoothed Viktor’s hair where the wind ruffled it. He kissed Viktor’s temple. “I know,” he murmured. A moment passed. “If I had died when I’d wanted to, we never would have met.”

Viktor choked, tears immediately forming in his eyes. He wouldn’t shed a single tear for his own death, but Yuuri’s affected him bone deep. Viktor slipped a hand from Yuuri’s hold, gripping Yuuri’s arm in a vice.

“Stay with me, here,” he begged. “For just a little longer.”

Yuuri nodded. He kissed Viktor’s skin in time with the waves. “Stay with me,” he echoed back. “Stay with me.” _Alive_.

“Stay with me.” _Forever_.

Stay with me.

Stay with me.

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha oh man that was fun.
> 
> so first of all Viktor is very obviously mentally ill here and bc of that his narration says a lot of things that I don't agree w/ at least not when i'm in a good headspace. i tried to address some of that at the end w/ yuuri but i totes understand if it was uncomfortable bc it made me uncomfortable writing it. he clearly has very romanticized views about death and suicide.
> 
> also yuuri is still nb here, during viktor's narration yuuri uses "they" but during yuuri's he uses "he."
> 
> [Fic Info and Requests](https://aceyuurikatsuki.tumblr.com/fic)


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